Twenty-six-degrees, and a walk through the frozen neighborhood before sunrise — an exhilarating way to start the day. I was careful, of course, to pick up my feet, ice being what it is, and bones being what they are. On the snowy parts, where cars had not been, the crunch of my footsteps was loud enough to wake the dead, if they were not awake already.
Day of the Dead
Snowy footprints . . . in this weather, any grave will do.
Poems, Slightly Used, January 8, 2010
Categories: Poems, Slightly Used